At Least
by narooks
Summary: "There is one subject Bolin is excellent at, one area of expertise for which his knowledge is unrivaled—Republic City's resident Avatar, the pretty and persistent, the dangerous and doe-eyed Korra."


To tell the truth, Bolin is not good at much. He is certainly not known for his sparkling wit or grace. In fact, over-turned house plants, scalded noodle pots and the derisive laughter of previous girlfriends serve as a testament to his physical, culinary and romantic clumsiness. He's outrageously bad at being authoritative, and he's merciful to the point of absurdity, qualities perhaps an up-and-coming police officer could do without (_you cannot let people slide on their parking violations just because they tell you some sob story about their dying pet or something, Bolin, spirits help me_). It's a stretch to call Bolin, the young man who trips over street curbs and picks flowers on his lunch break, a fully-functioning adult and member of society.

But a boy such as he is not without a few talents. He's got a sheepish smile that can land a free dumpling or two, for example. He's not half-bad at earthbending, he's got a knack for babies and beasts alike.

And there is one subject Bolin is excellent at, one area of expertise for which his knowledge is unrivaled—Republic City's resident Avatar, the pretty and persistent, the dangerous and doe-eyed Korra.

She is the object of his affections and ministrations, a creature he studies with all the attentiveness of the scholar. He knows Korra's anatomy (_long limbs, blue-eyed boy bait, too lovely for her own good_—_sometimes he feels the urge to physically interpose himself between Korra and some silly male's flagrantly admiring gaze_), he knows her behavior (_pleasant disposition until provoked, in which case, run for your life_). When they are not together, he can't help but wonder where she is, what she's doing, is she having fun, is it sunny where she is? Like a child picking out patterns in clouds, he tries to figure the mystery of her habitual movements, all the places she could be.

He doesn't have to wonder now, though. A glance to his left and there's Korra, sprawled out next to him on the bed, sound asleep despite the fact that it's approaching midday (_you_ _sleepyhead_, he thinks, fingertips circling her cheek).

She is lying on her stomach, naked but for an undershirt (one of his, discolored and threadbare, but she seems to like it) that's rolled up to her shoulders, revealing the long, warm curve of her back, her rib cage expanding with each shallow breath, the prickles and pinpricks of goosebumps and bruises, battle scars and love bites on her dark skin.

He loves all of her, of course, but Bolin has a preferred part of her, and his favorite bit of this sharp-eyed and honeyed girl's lithe and languorous body is the skin of her neck. It peeks out from underneath the mass of matted hair, soft as plum peels, more tender than the rest of her, Korra who was built and hardened for wartime.

He reaches up to skim his fingertips over her neck, finding her pulse, the point where her blood thuds and flows. He bends down to kiss her there, smiling. She is warm, emanating heat like a summer sun, smelling like spice and sweat and yeasty bread. The pad of his thumb finds the swells of her spine, slipping down to her collarbone.

His hands on her bring her back through the curtain of sleep, to the room they share. Korra yawns, rolling over, stretching in the dim light. She finds his hair, fingers tangling in his curls, pulling at him.

"Ouch." Bolin says good-naturedly.

"Bo?"

"Mhrm."

"Good morning."

She smiles at him, her hair fanning out over the pillow. She's in a particularly excellent mood, due to a concatenation of various circumstances. It is the weekend, Bolin has a few days off from his training, and she has no outstanding Avatar duties to take care of. For the first time in a solid month, they have a full day all to themselves. For once she doesn't have to pull on her boots and rush out the door, limiting herself to a brief and perfunctory squeeze of his hand. Green-eyed and dimpled, gentle and broad-shouldered Bolin with the ticklish torso and tender touch is, for several glorious hours, _all hers_.

In a rush she has her arms around him, and he feels like a sixteen-year-old boy again, wild and drunk on her, destroyed, distraught and revived, all by love. He is simultaneously soothed and intoxicated by the blessing of her presence, her touch. She presses an open-mouthed kiss to his neck, teeth scraping ever so slightly over his skin.

"You're awfully pleased today," he says, trying to control (with very limited success) the stammer her kiss produces in him.

"I think I've earned that right, Bolin. I've been pretty patient, and you know how much I do _not_ like being patient."

"Yup." He grins at her fiendishly and taps his chin as though deep in thought. "But you know, we can't really stay in bed. Didn't you want to go to the zoo and see the penguins? And then that noodle-fest at Narook's?"

She kisses his throat, sleepily, sloppily. He is flushed and sweet in the morning, and the suggestion that they should get up, that he should separate from her, is absolutely repulsive to Korra.

"Two more minutes."

"But we really can't stay in bed," he complains, pretending to get up.

She huffs, holding him fast. "Come on now. Are you questioning the wisdom of your Avatar?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. But you know, penguins are _mighty_ fascinating, with their floppy flippers and such. I wouldn't want to miss out." He does his best penguin imitation, flapping his arms, earning a chuckle from her.

Korra lies back down on the bed, moving her hair out of her eyes, pursing her lips in mock severity.

"Are you implying," she asks, in a husky voice, "that you find _penguins_ more interesting than me?"

She looks at him from under delicate, paper-thin eyelids, blush spreading through her face like watercolor, or wildfire. Here she is, watery grace and siren-like smile, a maritime goddess if there ever was one, a warrior through and through; she was born to serve the world entire, but she is dedicating herself entirely to him, even if it's only a day, only a few hours.

She reaches up one last time to press her lips to his neck. The silly reply he had prepared (_penguins or you? Tough call_) dies away as she finds the steady hum of his pulse underneath his ear and lingers there, concentrating on his raw and primal core, the soft and downy sentiment, that beat of his heart.

Korra pulls him down to her, and Bolin can't even feign resistance, not anymore. A warm laugh and blue-eyed blaze, a fleeting, foolishly romantic thought (_there's something here that will transcend lifetimes_). _I may not know much,_ he thinks to himself, his lips finding hers, _but at least I know you._


End file.
